


Copyright Infringement: a Not so Smooth Rise to Recognition

by InsanityRule



Category: Original Work
Genre: Humor, Orignial Work, Superhero slice of life, Superhero story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-05 12:11:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3119717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanityRule/pseuds/InsanityRule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rich. Handsome. Charismatic. Genius. All qualities of some of the finest superhero examples known to man.</p>
<p>Gabriel is middle class. Boyishly cute on a good day. Suffers from foot-in-mouth disease. And a smart-ass.</p>
<p>Close enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Introduction of the Dull Kind

Get up.  
Brush teeth.  
Get dressed.  
Poptart.  
Bus.  
School.  
Work out.  
Shower.  
Dinner.  
Homework.  
TV.  
Sleep.  
Repeat.  
Get up brush teeth get dressed poptart bus school work out shower dinner homework tv sleep repeat.  
Get up teeth dressed poptart bus school work out shower dinner homework tv sleep repeat.  
Up teeth dressed poptart bus schoolworkoutshowerdinnerhomeworktvsleeprepeat.  
Upteethdresspoptartbusschoolworkshowerdinnerworktvsleeprepe-  
“AUGH, this is so boring!”  
“Glad to hear your real thoughts, Mr. Angelo.” Blush, major blush. Maybe the desk can hide his shame. Not even close. “Care to pay attention like the rest of your class?”  
Matrices. Easy stuff. Simple math in a fancy box. And boring as hell. It’s first grade with a more complex picture. His homework’s already started for the day.  
“Mr. Greene? I don’t mean to be rude or anything,” no certainly not he’s just interrupting again for fun, “but I already know all of this, so can I just maybe take off for today?” The class laughs. Blush again. Mr. Greene is turning purple, that vein on his neck is going to burst.  
“So you think this is easy math?” He nods, confident in his ability to fake his way through the rest of the homework. “How about you solve this problem on the board.” Mr. Greene writes a new problem up as he talks. “If you get it right, you’re free to go.”  
“Sweet,” he hops up. The room is silent, watching him grab the chalk with a confident smile and ruffling blond hair before looking at the board and freezing. Multiplication. Multiplying matrices together. He didn’t get that far. Their homework doesn’t go that far. The only noise is the clock ticking and his panicked breathing.  
Okay. Here goes. Uh, that’s a bracket, good. He draws a single bracket next to the equal sign, then another leaving space between them for the answer. All eyes on him, all his attention focused on the numbers in the brackets. He draws a single zero in the center of the brackets with a line through it. No solution. A hand takes back the chalk and turns him around.  
“Nice try, Mr. Angelo.” The class laughs louder. He’s redder than the ginger kid’s hair. “Sit down, won’t you?”  
He’s quiet. Quiet and inattentive. They never cover multiplication today. It was a trick, he fell for it, he was never getting out of class today. On the way out the door a slip of paper hits him in the shoulder. Detention. Again.  
Big shocker.  
Stare forward. Stare backwards. Stare left. Stare right. Repeat.  
No bus runs now, but he won’t get a ride. One mile, two maybe, it’s a light run. A good easy jog for a workout. Left. Right. Repeat.  
Or it would be if he didn’t have three textbooks shoved into a backpack.  
Step thump step thump.  
Forget jogging. He walks the rest of the way home. Third floor apartment, one story, but spacious enough for three bedrooms. One tiny attic space above the third bedroom is converted to a workout room, mostly used by him. It hasn’t been cleaned in years. The sweat smell is oppressive.  
“Gabe,” he stops in the doorway. His mother is in the kitchen, sister at the TV with a bag of chips at her side. “You took awhile getting home.”  
“Workout,” he answers, nodding and pretending to wipe away sweat from his forehead. “Just a light run, you know. Stretch my legs.”  
“Is that code for detention.” She already knows. It’s a test of his conviction to the lie. He won’t win.  
“Oh, maybe. Just one little detention. No big deal.”  
“No big deal, and how many is that this month?”  
“Oh,” shrug and drop the backpack by the table, “you know, four.”  
“Four.”  
“I’ve had none,” Gloria hides the chips before he can take any. “I’m a model student you know.”  
“A model student, Gabriel. Your younger sister.”  
“She’s not a model student!” He takes the remote. “Chips or TV.”  
She hands over the bag. Jackpot.  
It’s only crumbs. Gloria laughs while he eats the bits. “I am the model student. No detentions, and my homework is already done.”  
“You’re fourteen! What homework could you have?”  
“Reading,” she tuts at him. “He used to be so good, mom. What happened.”  
“He became a brat.”  
He tosses the crumpled bag at Gloria. She dodges, laughs. He scowls.  
“Yeah, well I get better grades than you.”  
“I’m a bad test taker, Gabe.”  
“She’s a bad test taker,” his mother confirms.  
“A bad test taker. You just don’t study.”  
“And what am I supposed to do? The teachers are too vague.”  
“Study what you learned!”  
He’s not going to win. It’s not an argument to win, it’s a ritual to get him riled up. He could present actual facts and still lose.  
They both laugh. Blush again, fourth time today. “I’m working out. Outside.”  
A small jogging track behind the building circles a pond and some swings. Sweatshirt, long shorts, jock strap, running shoes, beanie. Perfect weather, late fall, second week of November. Just cold enough to keep him alert, just warm enough to spare him from chafing nipples. Straggling leaves are falling, snow is imminent. Music to keep him in time with his steps; headphones in and he’s off at a slow warm up speed.  
Then faster, a fast jog, only good enough to catch a slow bike rider.  
Then faster, catching the bus when you’re late in the morning. A poptart getting crushed in his bag and shoes still untied.  
Then faster, an actual running pace. Catch a slow kid playing tag.  
Faster and faster, a sprint speed.  
Faster. To the music. Electronic fast beat.  
Faster. Super speed.  
Blink. Eyes drying out. Legs aching. Feet sore.  
Slower, human speed. In time with the next song. Much slower, cool down jog, easing back to a walking speed. A small trail in the gravel, a slight depression, the marks of feet hitting the same place over and over again. Stinging cheeks from the chill. Cold ears. Dry eyes. Confused brain.  
What the hell?  
Back inside, stretching, touching toes and attempting the splits. Curling up when the splits go too far.  
“Fuck fuck,” he never learns. “Gosh damned why can’t you be made of steel.”  
Shower time. Warm water. Rinse. Soap. Repeat.  
Dinner time. The kitchen smells like casserole something or other. It’s probably leftover spaghetti sauce with more noodles and some chicken. There might be some vegetables thrown in to make it a balanced meal.  
Bite. Chew. Swallow. Repeat.  
“How’s the casserole?”  
“Fine.” He eats fast, as usual. “Do we have eye drops?”  
“Did you get a bug in your eye again?” He fake laughs and Gloria kicks him.  
“Ow! No, my eyes are dry. Ran too fast.” Gloria snorts. He sneers. “I’m just a great athlete.”  
“Try Amazon.com,” he puts a hand up and his mom throws a roll at him. “Running goggles.”  
“What do I look like? A dork?”  
He clears the plates. Gloria does the washing. His mother starts on a glass of wine.  
He hides out in his room. Clothes on the floor, posters on the wall, a dirty pile of dishes he needs to bring to the sink. One dead plant, used to be an aloe, a few flies circle the husk. Messy bed, messy desk, messy thoughts.  
Work to do. Matrices. Reading. Worksheets. Write, erase, repeat.  
Homework done. TV occupied by Gloria, with no end in sight. Lifetime marathons are the worst. Crying mothers, pregnant teenagers, sappy endings. Boring.  
Goggles time. The family computer is faster, but his personal computer is more private.  
Goggles. No not swimming goggles. Safety goggles? Nope. Racquetball…?  
“Not gonna write you a love song… cuz you asked for it, cuz you need one, you see. Not gonna write you a-” two knocks on the door frame.  
“What are you doing?”  
Frantic spacebar attack until the music stops playing. He settles back in the chair, nonchalant, leaning back until the chair almost tips over. Flailing, then he recovers, still calm and smiling.  
“What do you mean? I’m just, just reading some internet… papers.”  
“What are you singing?”  
“I’m not singing. I think we’re just having a conversation, and if you’re hearing things you should really tell mom-”  
“Was that Sara Bareilles?”  
“No, certainly not.” He plays with a pencil. The only pencil that still has lead, even though the desk is covered with others. “Just listening to… gangster rap.”  
“That was Love Song.”  
“That… may, be part of the song. It’s about… butts.”  
“Why are you so weird?”  
“So you’re not buying it?” Head shake. “It’s a good song!”  
“It’s a love song, Gabe. And you’re, oh I don’t know a teenage boy? Maybe?”  
“Still a good album.”  
“I know I have it somewhere… wait is this my CD?”  
“Uh, who knows?” Still smooth, still smiling like nothing’s going on.  
“When did you get it?”  
“When… did you lose your copy?”  
“Gabe!”  
“I just burned the CD to my computer,” he looks on the bottom shelf. “And then, I just put it away,” reach down. Grab the CD, “right on my shelf, yep. Here it is.”  
“Oh my god, Gabe.” Gloria takes the CD and punches his arm. “You’re so weird. Do you have more of my stuff?”  
“Um, that depends.”  
“On what?”  
“On how many CDs you think you’re missing.”  
The face, a scowl, then her eyes roll. Her mouth opens, he reaches to stop her but too late. “MOM!” She storms off. He’s probably in trouble. “He keeps taking my stuff! From my room!”  
“I just borrowed it!” Run off, get there fast, damage control time. “I just, forgot to bring it back after!”  
“He goes in my room! He takes my CDs!”  
“Borrows!”  
His mom says nothing. She watches them argue. Both of them yell. Eventually she gets up and leaves the room without a word.  
“Mom? Mom!” He chases after her. “Aren’t you supposed to solve problems?”  
“I think you’re good. Feel better?” He shrugs. “Yelled it out?”  
“Sure. I guess.”  
“Then bring the CDs back. Or ask first. Whichever you prefer.”  
Long, exaggerated sigh. Slumped arms, he hangs his head. “Fine.”  
Back in his room. At first only a few, but in the end twenty CDs rest on his bed, all Gloria’s. All female singer/songwriters.  
“Wow, Gabe. This… this says a lot. I want you to know, if you come out of the closet I’ll get a rainbow flag for my scooter.”  
“I just like female singers, okay?”  
“Right,” long vowel, longer eye roll. “Just bring them back, or whatever.”  
“I’ll try to remember, and when I forget I’ll blame mom for cleaning my room again.”  
“And when you forget I won’t punch you in the balls.”  
“Agreed” said together. He shakes Gloria’s hand.  
The goggles search continues. He looks up every sport before finding the perfect pair. Basketball goggles. Strap included, fully enclosed eyes, and he’ll look like a complete dork while wearing them. Excellent.  
One week. Ten dollars, not including shipping. Just a little bit of patience.  
Power down. Pack up homework. Change into pajamas. Lie down.  
Sleep.  
Repeat.


	2. The Superhero's Kryptonite

Beep beep beep.  
“Fuuuu-ine,” he smacks his alarm. Yawn, groan, stretch; he flops back down and closes his eyes, just for a second.  
Beep beep beep.  
Snap awake, “crap crap crap!” He jumps out of bed, falls on the floor, kicks free of his sheets.  
The bus comes in ten minutes. Pull off pajamas, throw on a clean shirt, find pants and one sock, two socks, neither match. Close enough. He has seven minutes.  
“Mom!” rush out to the living room. “Mom, is there still casserole in the fridge?”  
“Yes, and it’s in a bag.”  
“The kind with two zip things?”  
“Yes.”  
“Sweet,” fist pump.  
Gloria’s making lunch, one ham sandwich and chips. “You could just, I don’t know, start using a lunchbox.”  
“Why would I do that?” Grab a poptart package, get the casserole, slip a fork and the bag in his backpack. “Bags are fine.”  
“Until they break open. Again.”  
“That’s why it has the two zipper things.”  
“Or you use a lunch box.”  
He scoffs. “They’re unnecessary. So much easier to use a bag.”  
He’s never used a lunch box. Not once. Not since his mother started making him make lunch for himself. Food doesn’t matter. Casserole. Spaghetti. Stir fry. Cereal and milk. Anything, even soup.  
He’s dry cleaned his backpack five times.  
Three minutes.  
“Bye mom!”  
He’s on the bus, Gloria rides a scooter. Two years ago. Sixteenth birthday. Computer for his room or junk car. To him, easy choice. Computer. There’s privacy, and he sleeps on the bus. Win win.  
Bump, turn, stomach lurch. He sneaks bites of his poptart. No food on the bus. No one follows the rule. He just hides the evidence. Next stop. Loud underclassmen barge on. Crouch, slouch, hide. Music, earbuds, that’ll block the stupid. Sara knows how to chill him out.  
He mouths the words, his eyes start closing, the bus continues on.  
In out. In out. In out. Slow, even breaths.  
Startle awake. The bus is emptying. Class starts soon. No time to finish breakfast.  
Math class. Quiz time. Matrices again. It’s always matrices with this teacher. Ten problems, twenty minutes. No problem.  
Read, write, erase, repeat.  
Readwriteeraserepeat- Toss down pencil. Test complete. Glance around, no one is done. He looks to the clock. Seventeen minutes remain.  
What the shit?  
Look down, glance at paper, lift corner; no problems are on the other side. All problems complete, all apparently correct, and no one else is close to done.  
“Angelo, eyes on your paper.”  
Conundrum: say he’s done or pretend to work on the quiz. On one hand, he looks like a dirty cheater. The quiz is boring. Rereading is boring. Looking around is more interesting. Someone is clicking a pen. An eraser sounds like someone farting. Still boring.  
Twelve minutes.  
He’s thinking about his poptart, or maybe the casserole in a bag. Food sounds great.  
He starts to draw. Small circles, a few squiggles, and one triangle. It’s a face, maybe. Or it’s a pumpkin. Or terrible clouds.  
Ten minutes.  
Someone has to have finished. Glance left, glance right, no one is done. Glance up, Mr. Greene is looking down, the coast is clear. For now.  
Pencils start hitting the desks. Papers turn over. Students sigh with relief, or horror. He turns his over, copying the first few.  
Class ends, people file out, the teacher stands in front of his desk. “Gabriel.”  
“I have English, Mr. Greene.” He’s doddling, running late. Most of the class is gone.  
“I am aware you have classes after mine.” Blush. “What I’m unsure of is why you’re looking around during a quiz.”  
“I was done already.”  
“Uh huh.”  
“Mr. Greene I have to go,” he’s impatient, almost late, and accused of cheating on the quiz. Not his best day ever.  
“How about you come by after class to see your grade.”  
He’s in a bad mood. Snaps at a teacher, almost gets detention, and has to hide out in the bathroom to cool off. Lunch is a blessing. He sits on his own most days. Music in, book out, ziplock bag of food on the table.  
Mumbles mumbles.  
“Huh?” Take out an earbud. “Hey Glor.”  
“You know people would probably eat with you if you didn’t eat from a bag.”  
“Naw,” chew, swallow. “I also read during lunch. What a nerd.”  
“Are you listening to Sara Bareilles again?”  
“Nope, Kate Nash today.”  
“You’re so weird.” Shake head, roll eyes. Fond smile. He’s surprised when she sits down.  
“No friends today?”  
“They’re all in the other lunch hour except Lisa. She’s taking a make-up test.”  
“And I’m the next best thing.”  
“I guess.”  
Take a bite, chew, swallow. “Want some?”  
“No. We had it last night, how can you eat it again?”  
“Uh, it’s already made for me.”  
“Nevermind, I’ll eat alone. You’re embarrassing.” Shakes her head, frowns, waves her hands in a ‘no way’ motion. Gloria stands. He thinks of stopping her. Maybe. “See you at home.”  
“Love you too.” He calls out after her. Gloria makes a face and sticks out her tongue.  
End of the day. Grade time. Step forward, stop. Groan. Step step step. Sigh. Mr. Greene’s classroom. Now or never.  
“Ah, Gabriel, you’re in luck.”  
Accept the quiz. Read the answers, one wrong, the coast is clear. Sigh in relief.  
“I told you I didn’t cheat.”  
“See that is continues.”  
Missed the bus, walk home. Two books in his backpack. A run would be nice, but the goggles aren’t in yet. Soon. Five days at most. For now he has the small workout room.  
Up the tiny staircase by his door, over to the radio first, then to the CRT TV in the corner. Chvrches. Exercise tape. Sweatband. Muscle shirt. Shorts. Workout shoes.  
Stretch. Warm up. Deep breath in, out. In out. Arms up, stretch. Tip toes, stretch. Bend forward, stretch. Lunge left. Lunge right.  
Commence jazzercise.  
Someone’s in his room. He can hear them shuffling around. Maybe his mother cleaning up his dishes. Maybe his sister stealing back her CDs he borrowed.  
They’re coming upstairs. He can hear feet creaking on the steps.  
“... always does these. Look.”  
“Oh my god.”  
He hears them. It’s impossible not to, he’s just indifferent.  
“He’s been doing them with our grandma since he was like, five.” Shuffling, a beep barely cuts through the music. “What are you doing?”  
“Getting a video.”  
“Don’t bother, I’ll send you some later.”  
Cool down, song’s ending. Stretch. Deep breath. He turns around. “What’re you doing up here?”  
Gloria and a friend, one he can’t remember. He’s sweaty, breathing fast, thirsty, and teenagers are watching him. Fantastic.  
“Lisa didn’t believe me when I said you Jazzercise.”  
“So?”  
“So you’re not an old woman?” He frowns. She rolls her eyes.  
“Get out of my room Gloria.”  
“This isn’t just your room.”  
“The stairs are in my room. Out.” He shoos them downstairs.  
Back to the cooldown. In. Out. In. Out. Repeat.  
Shower time. Rinse, lather, rinse. Repeat.  
He can smell indian food down the hall. Takeout. His mother worked late today. His mother is at the table, Gloria and her friend are on the couch. The TV is on. Some reality show is playing. Boring.  
“Tikka masala?”  
“Of course.” He fist pumps. “It’s on the counter.”  
He takes the whole container, plies rice on top, grabs some pieces of naan to use as silverware.  
“Sweet.” He sits at the table with his mother.  
“Planning to eat all that tonight?”  
“Nope. This is lunch. Just needs a bag.”  
“Freak,” Gloria yells.  
“Creep,” he retorts. It gets missed. Gloria just looks confused. “What?”  
“Why am I a creep?”  
“Uh, you went in my room.” He states as if it’s obvious to everyone.  
“You do Jazzercise tapes grandma gave you for Easter.”  
“I have so many home videos of you doing Jazzercise with her.” Blush. He was unaware of this. “It’s adorable. I’m putting them out during your graduation party.”  
“Mom,” he whines.  
His mother ignores his whining. “You all have a week for Thanksgiving break, correct?”  
“Yeah mom,” Gloria answers.  
“Good. We’re going to Florida for the week. Your grandmother’s been hounding me over the phone about visiting.”  
“Really?” He’s excited. His grandmother is pretty damn sassy.  
“Yes, really.”  
He rushes off. In his room he grabs a duffel bag. Shirts, shorts, socks, underwear; he throws it all inside. And one sweatshirt. Sometimes his grandmother’s retirement condo is cold.  
“Gabe,” his mother is at the door. He looks back from the bag and grins sheepishly. “You do know you have another week of school before break, right?”  
“I know.” He hangs his head. His mother kisses his hair and he grumbles.  
“Wow, you’re packed already? That was fast.”  
Confusion. Uncertainly. He looks to the clock. One minute. Less, even, since he had to get to his room.  
“I’m quick, I guess.”  
“We’re flying out next Saturday. Can you wait till then?”  
“Sure,” pause, forehead crinkles, “flying?”  
“You’ll be fine, sweetheart.”  
The days go too fast and too slow. Too slow, because he’s excited. Too fast, because he hates to fly. Last minute quizzes, homework assignments, tests, everything is a blur. The goggles arrive. He tosses the package aside, forgets about them. By Friday he feels sick.  
“Mom, I can’t find my travel iron.”  
“You iron your clothes?” Gabe teases.  
“My hair iron, jerk. Did you hide it?”  
He chuckles. She sneers and storms off. He goes back to worrying.  
“Are you ready, Gabe?” His mother. She’s making some food they can eat in the morning.  
“Only if you get me some Xanax.”  
“How about Dramamine?” He pouts. “You’ll be fine.”  
“Yeah if you get me some Xanax.”  
“Not going to happen.”  
Sweat on his brow, face contorted, he barely sleeps at all. It’s an early flight. Nine in the morning. Not too early, but early enough. They arrive two hours early. He’s exhausted.  
“Mom, hurry up. We’re going to be late.”  
“Gloria, patience. We’ll be fine.”  
Deep breaths. In. Out. In out. Inoutinoutinout-  
“Sweetheart, relax.” Rubs his back, his mother guides him to the final security checkpoint. Half an hour before takeoff. Bags are checked.  
He takes off his shoes, sandals. Walks through. The metal detector beeps. He panics, but his mother grabs his keys from his shorts. Walk through again, no beeps. He sighs.  
It’s busy in the lounge. Only two open seats. Gloria stands by the window. He curls up in a chair by his mom. She rubs his back, scratches his scalp, he tries to calm down. Calming thoughts. Music. Jazzercise. Naps. Anything. He’s still worked up.  
“Now boarding first class and those with children to Orlando.”  
“Mom?”  
“Try to relax, Gabe. We’re in coach. Three seats. You can have the window if you want.”  
He doesn’t, but he does. He’s exhausted, but wired. His ears start ringing. A hand guides him to the gate, holds his ticket, ushers him down the tunnel to the plane. He’s silent, unaware until he’s in the aisle, staring at their seats.  
It’s clean enough. The seats are carpet-like, but comfortable. He sits, closes his eyes, sighs. It’s cool in the cabin. He forgets they’re in a plane. Almost.  
“Good morning passengers this is your captain speaking…”  
Inoutinoutinout-  
“Mom he’s so embarrassing.”  
“Gloria.”  
“Gabe we’ve flown like, twenty times.”  
“Gloria. Enough.” His mother rubs his back. He startles, opens his eyes. “Honey?”  
He’s pale, clammy, nauseous. He groans and leans forward. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”  
“We haven’t even taken off yet.” His mother glares, Gloria rolls her eyes.  
“Head between your knees. Breathe through your nose.”  
She rubs his back, the plane starts moving, he grabs her hand. Squeeze. Backrub. In. Out. In. Out. Repeat.  
Takeoff.  
“Mom I’m gonna puke.”  
“Can you hang on until the seatbelt light is off?”  
“Maybe,” he groans.  
Ding. Light off. Seatbelts click. He’s already down the hall. The bathroom is empty. Thankfully. He takes one breath. Throws up. In. Out. He feels better, for now. Washes his hands and face in the weird sink. Gets foaming soap and hand sanitizer all over the counter. Almost trips walking back to his family.  
Still pale, still clammy, but less nauseous. Less sick. Still scared, still unhappy. He returns. Gloria makes a face. He doesn’t respond.  
“Do you want the aisle seat, Gabe?”  
“No.”  
He curls up. Shuts the window. Hides. Hides from the other passengers, from Gloria, from the stewardess. They all look concerned. Worried for him, worried for the carpet. He leans on his mom. Hides on her shoulder. He feels young, too young, five years old. He holds her hand all three hours.  
They land. People fill the aisle. Everyone in a rush, hurrying to grab carry on bags, hurrying to exit the plane and start their vacations. He’s better, less nauseous, and he feels like acknowledging others.  
Except the stewardess. She still looks sympathetic.  
“Feeling better, honey?”  
“Yeah,” he releases his mom’s hand, stretches out his back and legs.  
“Good, you know she’s going to want to get to step aerobics on time.”


	3. Everyone Has That One Relative

Baggage pick up, taxi, drop off. He feels better by the time they arrive. The flight is behind him, aerobics are in sight, his grandmother is answering the door to her condo.  
Straightforward condos, cookie cutter appearance, singles and couples side by side. His grandmother has a wind chime, a small stone angel, and one lonely bunch of daffodils.  
“Well it’s about time,” she’s smiling. Little old lady, puffy white hair, small but sturdy frame. She hugs him first. “How’s my step partner doing?”  
He loves his grandma. “Good, grandma.”  
She moves on to his mom. “How’s it going mom?”  
“Oh, same old same old, dear.” Back to him, back to the important matters. “Are you joining me today Gabriel?”  
“Of course,” scoff, smile, one more hug. “Just gotta get changed.”  
“Changed?”  
“Grandma, you didn’t think I’d wear this to step?” Scoff, laugh, he rushes into the bathroom to change.  
Shorts, clean tennis shoes, tie dye muscle shirt, sweatbands, headband, and he’s ready to go. The old ladies all love him. He’s young, he’s cute, he’s energetic. And he loves the attention.  
It’s a small gym, some old room in the condo community converted. Mirrors line the wall, soft mats on the floor, bars on the wall opposite the mirror wall, step aerobic steps staggered across the mats.  
“Oh Mary this can’t be little Gabriel,” oh yeah, he’s so popular with the old ladies. He’s taller than most of them, taller than his grandma, taller than the middle aged man that leads the class.  
“He’s just the sweetest thing,” he’s not a fan of cheek pinching, but he’ll endure.  
Rules don’t apply to cute teenagers. Not around old ladies that don’t get to see their grandkids. Residents only? Nonsense. The residents love him, and the middle aged instructor- he doesn’t know that woman across the hall. She’s young, too young, not a resident. She’s pretty. She’s coming this way. Crap.  
“And who’re you?” Blush. Hide it, fail. Blush more.  
“Oh, don’t you worry your pretty little head, Megan. He won’t bother anyone.”  
“Grandma,” he tries to defend himself. Be a man. Be strong. Be forceful.  
“Isn’t he just the cutest thing?”  
“Grandma!”  
“And he’s so young and tight-”  
“GRANDMA!” Beet red. So red. He wants to die, to crawl under a table, to melt into the floor. Anything to get away. She’s laughing, this Megan person is laughing, he’s dying. Dying inside, and he can’t get away. He hides in the back, back by his grandma, back where no one will see him blushing.  
The mirrors give him away.  
Step left. Step right. Blush. Repeat.  
He wants to leave. The class is over, his grandmother is mingling, and fuck fuck the instructor is walking towards him.  
“Mary’s your grandmother,” he nods. “Aren’t you a little old to do things like this?”  
Blush forever. He’ll never recover.  
“I just, she’s my grandma and- cardio. Working out-”  
“Oh isn’t he just the most handsome thing you’ve ever seen?” His grandma loves him, but he wonders if she’s trying to kill him. “Just look at those muscles.” She grips his arm. Wiggles it in front of Megan. Embarrasses him forever. There’s a small table. It has snacks and water. Maybe he can hide under the table. He can hide forever and be alone.  
“So what uh,” squeak, he coughs. He’ll never be pale again. “You’re new? That’s cool, I mean the other guy was fine but he’s a guy and-”  
“Honey, I’m twenty-four.” He wants to die. “And you’re what, sixteen?”  
“Seventeen,” he’s mumbling, embarrassed, and contemplating running.  
“Gabie, quit your flirting.” Maybe she doesn’t actually love him. “We’re going to the diner tonight.”  
Food. He can focus on that. He can pretend he’s fine. He can rush out of there while still letting his grandma keep up.  
“See you tomorrow Gabie.”  
He’s going to live in the forest from now on.  
They get back. His grandma goes to change. He falls onto the couch. Face first. He’s groaning, his mother drops a towel on him. “You’re sweaty.”  
“Thanks mom, love you too.”  
“How was aerobics?”  
“Awful. The new instructor’s a girl, and grandma told her I was tight!”  
Silence. Awkward, painful silence. “Well, I suppose if it’s-”  
“Mom it’s embarrassing! And I mean, she’s twenty-four or whatever but still!”  
“She was cute wasn’t she?”  
“Maybe,” he’s pouting. “And she called me Gabie. I’m not five!”  
“You went to her step aerobics class dressed like Richard Simmons.” Gloria snarks. He sneers. “C’mon, grandma’s always like that.”  
“Oh, so you want her calling you tight in front of some boy?”  
“Ugh, no, gross.”  
“She loves it when you join her, Gabe.” His mother kisses his hair. “And you love it.”  
He rolls over. “I don’t want my grandma calling me tight in front of college girls.”  
“She’s way out of your league, Gabie.” Gloria teases.  
“Yeah okay, Glorie. I’m telling grandma you have a boyfriend.”  
“Gabe! Mom he’s not being fair!”  
“I got called tight by an old woman. It’s your turn to die of embarrassment.”  
They argue, his mom lets them blow off some steam. They finish. Cool down. All is fine. His grandma ushers them to her ancient sedan so they can eat.  
“Gabriel, why don’t you drive us?”  
“No way, he’s a crazy driver.” He shoves Gloria. She shoves him back. “He’ll kill us all.”  
His mother drives. He and Gloria are in the back. He falls asleep on the way.  
He’s not terribly hungry. The plane messed up his stomach. His grandma always goes to a diner. It’s a faux retro diner. Plastic seats he can’t sleep in. Jukebox in the corner. Counter with older gentlemen drinking coffee. Poodle skirts and big hair. It’s corny, kitch, but they do have good fries.  
He’s tired, sweaty from exercise, his pride is a shriveled mess on the floor. If his grandma wasn’t fawning over his muscles he’d cry. His self esteem is shot.  
“You’re getting so strong Gabriel. Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”  
“Because you made the new instructor laugh at me, Grandma.” She swats his head. He laughs. “It’s true.”  
“Like you’d ever date her anyway.” Gloria corrects. He pouts. “What, she’s like, twenty-four, right?”  
“Doesn’t matter.”  
“Yeah if you want her arrested.”  
“Don’t you dare, Gabriel she’s a saint.” His grandma smacks him again. “That angel got new equipment for the aerobics room.”  
“It did feel like we wouldn’t step through the stairs today.”  
“You’re not getting her in trouble.”  
“Fine, I’ll come visit in a month. I’ll be eighteen.”  
“You look like you’re twelve.” Gloria kicks him. He flexes one arm. “Okay, fine, thirteen.”  
“Gloria your brother is a stud.” Blush. “I bet the girls are just too shy to ask such a handsome man out.”  
“Grandma stop!” Head on the table. He hides. Food arrives. He never looks up, even to eat. His mother funnels fries under the table for him.  
“Well, at least you’re committed sweetheart.” He grumbles. She ruffles his hair. “Ugh, and sticky.”  
“I didn’t get to shower,” he whines. Gloria rolls her eyes. “I get dibs back home.”  
“You better shower before then.” Gloria teases. “I’m not sharing a room with you if you don’t.”  
He’s confused, then he gets it, and he looks up to scowl. Gloria sticks out her tongue. He puts his face back down. The booth isn’t very comfortable. He’s tired, smelly, and his family loves to tease him mercilessly. He’ll never survive Thanksgiving.  
He survives somehow. Barely. They return and he immediately occupies the bathroom. Hot water. Steam. Deep breaths. Easing stomach. Shampoo. Soap. Rinse. Repeat.  
Snort. Confusion. Yawn. He’s awake, disoriented. The water is cold. He fumbles, slips, almost falls reaching for the faucet. Makes it warmer, more tolerable. It’s been awhile, he’s not sure how long. No one knocked yet.  
It gets cold fast, too fast. He leaves the shower. Turns off the water. Huddles in a towel. He’s cold again, still half asleep, confused, and hungry. He barely ate dinner.  
“Mom?” He shouts. Searches. His sleep clothes aren’t in sight. He’s running around in a towel. “Mom, where’s my bag?”  
She’s in the kitchen. There’s some cookies in the oven. He can smell the chocolate chips. His mouth waters.  
“You’re making cookies?”  
“Well, your grandmother went to bed early, or as she put it on time, so I wanted to make some snack food since she only has carrots and whatever these knock off crackers are.” She hands him generic saltines. They’re round. He’s not sure where his grandmother found them.  
“What the heck are these?”  
“I have no idea. Want some dough?” He nods. Takes the spoon. Starts eating all of the chocolate chips out of the bowl. “Why are you naked?”  
“I forgot my pajamas in my bag. And I’m hungry.”  
“Go get dressed. The cookies are almost done.”  
“Mom that’s so hard.”  
“That’s what she said.” Gloria throws a blanket on his head. He wraps up. Settles against the table. “Why’s he naked?”  
“Because your brother’s lazy.”  
“Hey, I’m not lazy. I’m just… tired.”  
“He’s tired, mom.”  
“Hey, I fell asleep in the shower.” They laugh. He blushes. “I was tired!”  
“He was tired mom.”  
“Then he should go to bed early like your grandmother.”  
“You guys are both jerks.” He leaves the kitchen. Abandons the cookie dough. Finds his duffel bag in the smallest bedroom. He drops the blanket, pulls on his clothes, drops his towel off in the bathroom. The blanket is warm, he wraps back up and returns for cookies. They’re cooling on the counter, warm and gooey and delicious. He wants one now.  
“Smells good.”  
“They’re too hot. Wait a minute or two.” He pouts. She ignores him, pours him a glass of milk, placates him for now. “Feeling better now?”  
“Yeah,” he drinks some milk. “Can’t we drive next time?”  
“All twenty-two hours? Not a chance. We got a good deal on tickets, Gabe, and gas is expensive.”  
“I fucking hate flying.”  
“Language.” Blush. Mumbled apology. “I know you do, Gabe. Maybe we’ll dope you up for the return trip.”  
“I just wanted a Xanax. Just one. Can’t you steal one?”  
“Yes, because it’s been my dream to get fired because you want the same medication as the old rich ladies I have to listen to every day.”  
“Maybe it’ll help.” He shrugs. The cookies are tempting him. He grabs one, tosses it back and forth, takes a molten bite. It burns his mouth. He doesn’t care. “These are great.” It’s mumbled around cookie and his burned tongue. “Heeth are gref.” She gets the idea.  
“Next time I’m surprising you with the plane.”  
“I slept like shi-crap last night. All week, too.” He mumbles. Curls up more in the blanket. It’s a microfleece. Something his grandmother picked up during the winter. The condo is warm, the blanket is warm, he’s getting tired again. “What time is it?”  
“Oh, about 8:30. Why?”  
“I’m tired already.” He leans on her. Stops all cooking and cleaning. She rubs his back, ushers him to the couch.  
“Watch a movie or something.”  
“Kay.” He settles in. Gloria is already watching Pretty Women. It’s barely started. He’s seen it before. He falls asleep almost immediately.  
A hand shakes his shoulder. He snorts, startles, stretches his back. It’s dark, Gloria is gone. He’s hungry again.  
“Whazzat?”  
“It’s midnight honey. Go sleep in a bed.”  
He falls off the couch. Groans, grumbles, needs help to get to his feet. She guides him to the bedroom. Gloria is asleep in the far bed. He falls into the first, still on top of the blankets, still wrapped up in the microfleece. The pillow is above him. He shuffles up to it, curls up around a pillow, falls back to sleep immediately.  
Wednesday. Thanksgiving is tomorrow. He’s banished from the kitchen, banished from ‘helping’ with the food. He goes outside, stretches, starts jogging around the condo community. It’s warm in Florida, warmer than Minnesota. Seventy-five degrees. No sweatshirt or hat today.  
He misses the snow, but he loves the sun.  
The kitchen is a disaster. He steps inside, walks past everything, locks himself in the bathroom. This time he doesn’t fall asleep. He soaks in the heat, emerges to find his mother and sister molesting their turkey, and turns back around without a word. He makes a face, a cringe, he quietly hides in his and Gloria’s bedroom. The blanket is calling him, he throws on a pair of boxers. He wraps up, flops onto the bed, immediately falls asleep.  
His pillow is wet, he hopes it’s not drool. No one woke him up, a sunbeam is on the floor; it’s been creeping towards his bed inch by slow inch. He stumbles up, pulls the blanket along,  
The kitchen is quiet, he sneaks another cookie and milk. A hand touches his shoulder, startles him, he nearly drops the glass. His breathing is quick, in out in out, his mother is quiet. She’s good at scaring him.  
“You missed dinner, or scraps.”  
“Uh,” he’s not awake. He almost bolted.  
“We’re putting the turkey in first thing tomorrow. Thanksgiving is going to be lunch.”  
“And the next like, five meals. Mom we made too much food.” Gloria takes his cookie. He’s too out of it to protest. “Why’d grandma make us make so much?”  
“Oh, I bet she’s trying to woo some old guy.” He makes a face, fake gags, gets himself another cookie. “Gabe, your grandmother’s been single for half your life. And let’s be honest, when she’s not at aerobics she’s probably getting it on with-”  
“LALALA NO THANK YOU.” He runs off, ducks under an end table. His mother laughs. “I don’t wanna hear about grandma doing… stuff with old dudes.”  
“It happens, probably a lot-”  
“Mom!”  
“Your grandmother’s a fox.”  
He groans, ducks, covers his head with the blanket. Sex? Fine, it’s a thing, it’s nice, he’s done it. Once. It wasn’t magical. Mostly embarrassing, somewhat messy, they stopped dating. First time jitters. Relative inexperience. Whichever, she was less than enthused. He got over it fast. Mostly. She did tell her friends he’s fast.  
But old people sex? Terrifying. Nightmarish. He never wants to think about it, never wants to picture anything. Not old sags, not naked old man butts, nothing. He’d rather die.  
“Mom, I think Gabe should do all the dishes tomorrow.”  
He sits up, scoot away from the table, glares. His mother is agreeing.  
“Hey, you told me-”  
“He’s so ungrateful, and during Thanksgiving, mom.”  
“It is Thanksgiving. The time to give thanks, and be with family.”  
“And he’s always sleeping.”  
“I just took a na-”  
“He is rather lazy,” his mom nods. He whines. He’ll never win. He knows this. “Gabe, come eat at the table.”  
“No,” he’s pouting, he does get up. She offers him some stuffing. He eats an entire plate.  
Thanksgiving is uneventful. He does some of the dishes, eats a lot of the food, does an exercise tape with his grandmother before dinner. Leftovers are abundant. He eats his weight in mashed potatoes and stuffing three times over.  
They keep busy. A picnic on the beach one day, an afternoon at Epcot the next, some sort of aerobics every day.  
He forgot about the flight home.

**Author's Note:**

> This is an original work of fiction. Any mentions to song artists or comic book characters belong to said artists or Marvel or DC.


End file.
